Shattered

The pain was gone.  After suffering miserably for months, it had left me.  All I had prayed for was for a release, an end to my disabling sorrow.  My prayer had been answered.  It was gone now.  I hadn't understood, though.  How could I have? How could I have known what would follow?   

Isn't that what any person would have craved?  Would have pleaded for?  My bones had screamed with the insanity of my physical pain.  My cells had whined with my emotional guilt.  My tissue itself had ached with the agony of walking through this joke of a life.  It had felt as if someone was ripping my insides out every minute of every day.  

Every step was a new experiment in pain as I constantly encountered grisly reminders of a life lost, an existence now beyond my grasp.  I would never be the person I had once been becoming.  I would never grow into the entity I had once aspired to be.  That path was forever closed to me.  The reality of it was as final as death itself and just as welcome.  As I walked down the street, as I went to school, as I lay awake in bed at night.  Always, it was my constant companion.  My loathing of who I had become instead, my metamorphosis into depravity and shame.  I curled into a protective fetal ball to escape my misshapen, grotesque form.  But it wasn't even the ulgiest part of me.  That part I hid deep inside, too disturbing to allow anyone to witness. My rampant fear of how much farther I could slip haunted me.  Where would it stop?  I saw it every time I looked in the mirror, not even recognizing my own reflection tainted by my complete self disgust at being the one who survived.  I should have died, been reprieved.  I had not deserved to be the one left behind, unless it served as punishment, atonement.

Why?

Now it was gone.  The pain. Was. Gone. 

I hadn't anticipated that it would leave nothing in its wake.  I didn't realize that sometimes nothing can survive the tide of such emotional destruction.

And that is what had happened to me.  What is left after you are utterly bereft from grief?  Totally adrift in your own despair with nothing to anchor you to the shore?  Eventually grief passes as everything does with the passage of time.  But what is left in its stead?  What if there is nothing to salvage?  Nothing redeemable in the person you have become?  Nothing salvagible in the debris of your soul?

Reviews

[Jocelyn_wonders]

For the most part your writing is quite good; your word usage and metaphors put feeling into this piece. My suggestion would be to avoid sentence fragments in formal writing.
Keep on writing; you've got what it takes.
Jocelynw

[Demi Rose]

the last couple of lines really got to me. in a good way though. anyway i liked it. u have some deep skills here.

[Sugar and Spice]

I liked this... It was dark but at the same time it was beautiful... you created a scene in my head and it was devasting but thats what a good story should do... Well done!